


Carte Blanche

by geekdom_is_wisdom



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2175495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekdom_is_wisdom/pseuds/geekdom_is_wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire's job application at the art museum is turned down on the basis of his tattoos, Enjolras is livid, and confronts the curator to demand egality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carte Blanche

“Do you know what year Vincent van Gogh moved to France?”

Enjolras looked up from his notes to stare Grantaire in the face with a fixedly blank expression.

“I do hope that’s rhetorical…” he mused, eyebrows raised.

“Hm. Well, I don’t know either. But I’m gonna find out.” Grantaire replied, turning on his heels and marching from the room. 

A moment later he returned, a thick art reference book cracked open in his arms. His calloused fingers glided down the page as he read, until:

“Aha! 1886. Of course it was – the year of ‘A Pair of Shoes’. Not the same command of color as his later works, but undoubtedly one of his more philosophical works – “

“R, I beg of you, stop.” Enjolras exclaimed, setting down his notes and rubbing his temples in exasperation as the tousle-haired man paced their apartment fretfully. “There’s such a thing as too much preparation, you know. It’ll only make you more nervous.”

“Says the man who stays up rewriting speeches until 2am every other week.” Grantaire returned with an attempt at a wry smile, which faltered with anxiousness. “I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad if I had a back-up, but I just don’t, and I really need the money, and – “

“You are going to be great. You were made for this job! There’s no way the museum can turn you down.” Enjolras declared. “You managed to teach me a bit about art, so obviously you’re a good guide. I mean, now I can tell you all about that Cyan guy – “

“Cezanne. Cyan is a color.” Grantaire corrected, holding back a smirk.

Enjolras looked disheartened for a moment, before he perked back up. 

“Yeah, well, some people are beyond even your help.” he said dismissively. “But honestly, you will be fine. It’s just like any other visit to the museum.”

“Except with the curator, who has a PhD. From Cambridge.” Grantaire mumbled dispiritedly.

“So? You don’t have a PhD from Cambridge and I haven’t thrown you out of the apartment in shame. Yet.” Enjolras added, but, sensing that he was not in a joking mood, turned his tone to a more sympathetic one. “Don’t overthink this. Who cares if he went to bloody Cambridge? It doesn’t shake the fact that you are perfect for this job, and we both know it.” 

Grantaire mumbled incoherently, and Enjolras dismissed the idea of cheering him up as a hopeless endeavour.

For the rest of the morning, R barely spoke a word. Instead, he paced back and forth, downed several mugs of coffee, and ran to grab a reference book every few minutes to check a fact or figure. At one stage he disappeared into the bedroom, reemerging a few minutes later clean-shaven and dressed in a full, smart ensemble – chinos, shirt, tie, waistcoat, and even a pair of astonishingly well-polished dress shoes. Enjolras realized that he was staring and shook his head vigorously to bring him back to his senses.

“I feel ridiculous.” Grantaire complained, tugging at the tie.

“You look ridiculous, too.” Enjolras replied, his sarcasm clearly not evident enough, for Grantaire looked wounded for a moment before he spotted the other man’s smirk.

“Don’t fuck with me.” Grantaire responded, waving a warning finger at him as he suppressed laughter.

“I don’t want to fuck with you, just fuck you, actually.” Enjolras replied, eyeing Grantaire up and down without reserve. “God, what’s a man got to do to make you dress like that more often?”

“No chance. I feel like a pretentious idiot. No, worse – I feel bourgeois.” he shivered in discomfort.

“I’ll forgive you for that, just this once.” Enjolras replied, smirking. Grantaire, whose stomach was still churning with nerves, did not return the motion.

“I’d better go.” he said unwillingly, edging towards the door. Seeing his pallor and the light trembling of his hands as they groped the strap of his messenger bag, Enjolras rushed over to peck him on the cheek, with a breathy murmur that made Grantaire’s heart race like a bird’s.

“I have utter faith in you.”

When Grantaire set off down the hall, it was with a little more spring in his step.

Enjolras spent the day at the kitchen table, working away a speech for a rally in a few weekend’s time. His thoughts were so preoccupied with Grantaire’s interview, though, that he made frustratingly little progress, and he was much relieved when Grantaire finally arrived home. As soon as Enjolras heard the key turn in the lock, he slammed shut the lid of his laptop and rushed out into the living room.

“How did you go?” he asked, eyes wide and imploring.

“I… I didn’t get the job.” Grantaire mumbled, swinging the door shut with more force than was necessary.

“Congrat – wait, what?” 

Enjolras broke off mid-sentence, utterly confused.

“They said I wasn’t right for it.” Grantaire said, shrugging in would-be nonchalance. 

“What the fuck are they talking about? You’re perfect for that job.” Enjolras stated, his pale complexion marred by an angry red blush. “You know more about those paintings than the artists themselves, not to mention how passionate – “

“It’s the tattoos.” Grantaire cut in bluntly, rubbing the back of his neck with an air of despondence. 

“What about them?” Enjolras asked, frowning. 

Though he would never even consider getting one himself, he adored Grantaire’s tattoos. He found the swirling patterns that laced his arms completely mesmerizing, and often found himself distracted by the way the colors danced on his skin – wine-like reds and deep, mossy greens. Here and there, woven carefully into the pattern, were little motifs – a flower, a bird with outstretched wings, an artist’s palette – but these were noticeable only on close examination, and for the most part, they simply resembled brushstrokes on a canvas. They were, Enjolras thought, quite entirely beautiful.

“They turned me down because of the tattoos. They said I didn’t comply with their dress code, or whatever.”

“They refused to hire you because of your tattoos?”

“Well, yes. But hey, don’t go and get yourself worked up over it, it’s fine, I’m not – “

“Fuck that, I’m sure as hell going to get worked up over it.” Enjolras retorted, quivering with rage. “Do you know how discriminatory that is? You were the perfect candidate for that job, they can’t just turn you away – “

“Actually, they can.” Grantaire interjected impatiently. “So can you please just drop it?”

The deadness in his eyes made Enjolras’ stomach turn, half in sympathy, half in rage. Grantaire fell back onto the couch with a groan and buried his face in the pillows.

“How can I help?” Enjolras asked tentatively, bending down so that he knelt besides the sofa, their faces level. 

Sensing this presence Grantaire emerged from the pillows, blinking the light from his eyes, and Enjolras felt his heart quicken at the sight of the those brown irises, their color a merge of hues – caramel, walnut, umber, cinnamon, tawny. They were the polar opposite of his own, an icy, piercing blue that he had never cared much for. Perhaps that was why he loved them so dearly; as cold as Enjolras’ were, Grantaire’s were warm, even now when they brimmed with disappointment.

“You could bring me a bottle of wine.” he suggested, only half jokingly.

Enjolras gave him a reproaching look, and Grantaire scoffed.

“Fine then, no. You can’t help.” he mumbled, burying his face back into the pillow so that his words were muffled. “I’m just gonna lie here until I feel less shit.”

Enjolras went to fetch him a blanket.

As soon as Enjolras heard gentle, murmuring snores issuing from the sofa, he crossed the room with footfalls as quiet as a cat’s, grabbed his coat off the hook by the door, and slipped quietly out of the apartment.

Grantaire had taken him to the museum several times before, and besides, it was only a few blocks’ walk to the gallery - a fact which had thrilled Grantaire so much that he had spent weeks convincing Enjolras that it was the perfect apartment for them. He had eventually given in, on the basis that it was an equal distance from the library as it was the museum.

The mere thought of Grantaire made Enjolras’ heart quicken, pumping adrenaline and anger through his veins. 

Enjolras had never known R to be so at peace as he was in the vast halls of that museum. Their first date had been at the museum; Grantaire had spent hours patiently explaining the difference between renaissance and baroque, between a Monet and a Renoir. Enjolras had tried to listen, squinting at the brushstrokes and attempting to comprehend them, but he had ended up spending more time gazing at brightness of R’s eyes, or the gentle curve of his smile, than he had the artwork. Every time Grantaire had caught Enjolras staring at him, instead of the paintings, he would shove him playfully and pretend to scold him.

They had shared their first kiss in front of a Degas.

It was for these reasons that Enjolras was so incensed. That museum was a part of Grantaire, a place where he could shed away the cynicism and sarcasm that bowed his shoulders like a physical weight. It was a sacred place, within those hallowed halls - a temple of suffering artists past, and a refuge for suffering artists present.

How could they deny a pastor from preaching at his church?

Enjolras entered the museum through the main guest entrance, but approached the front desk, painting his face with a feigned smile.

“Excuse me, madame,” he interjected, his voice like velvet. “Are you able to direct me to monsieur le conservateur?”

“The curator? I am sorry; he is too busy to see guests. Perhaps you could book an appointment – “

“No, no, I am sorry, I do not make myself clear. I am an old friend; we studied together, at Cambridge.” Enjolras amended, still smiling forcibly.

“At Cambridge?” she repeated skeptically.

“I was an undergraduate whilst he was completing his PhD.” he replied, shrugging and laughing lightly.

The woman looked unconvinced, and Enjolras, impatient, decided to quicken the process. He leant onto the desk, deliberately splaying his blond curls across his forehead, blinking his long, doe lashes. The woman’s eyes widened.

“I would be very much in your debt, madame, if you could direct me to him. I haven’t much time, as I am merely passing through, and so I promise I will not distract him for long.” he vowed, his voice quiet and imploring. He was close enough to the woman that she could smell his cologne.

“Yes, well, I suppose that being the case, it could not hurt.” she stammered, unable to deny the god-like young man. “I believe he was overlooking the Rococo Wing – “

“Thank you, madame.” Enjolras replied, instantly dropping the guise of charisma and setting off at a jog, leaving the woman utterly bemused in his wake. 

It had alarmed Enjolras when he had first realized how much of people’s attention to him was centered on his appearance. How could they possibly be so vain? But in recent years he had learnt to manipulate the fact, using his features to draw out information when it was needed. Enjolras could be charismatic, when he desired it; he was sharp enough to toy with people, to detect their inhibitions and tear down the walls. His beauty had become more than just a magnet – it was an asset, and one that he had no hesitation in employing.

Enjolras followed the overhead signs to the said wing, and scanning the hall, soon identified what could only be the curator – a man of at least sixty-five, garbed in a tweed suit and with a look of superiority typical of academics. Approaching him, this was confirmed by the badge on his lapel. Enjolras cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, monsieur, may I have a word with you?” he put forward politely.

“Do you have a question about the artwork?” he returned, surveying Enjolras’ youthful face and supposing him a student.

“No, not as such.” Enjolras answered, shaking his head. “I am here in regards to a job interview you took this morning. The candidate’s name was Grantaire, he was applying for a guide role here.”

“Yes, I interviewed him.” the curator acknowledged stiffly, a slight frown joining the wrinkles of his forehead. “He was denied the role.”

“That is precisely my problem, monsieur. You see, Grantaire is a, uh, close friend of mine, and he must have been mistaken, because he thought that you denied his application once you saw his tattoos, and – “

“That is correct.”

Enjolras blinked once, forcedly. 

“Monsieur, my friend is exceptionally knowledgeable, and extremely passionate. I really think you are being short-sighted in denying him on the basis of something so petty.”

“We do not consider the public image of this establishment to be a petty matter.” the curator replied coldly, narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, but – “ Enjolras began again impatiently.

“I am sorry, but the matter is not negotiable. Our policy is that staff are not permitted to have visible tattoos. Ergo, he is not eligible for a position here, regardless of his expertise.”

Enjolras was struck by another wave of anger, and he suddenly felt utterly uncomfortable in the hall. He was surrounded on all sides by ornate works, the mere lavishness and light of which made him feel ill. He had never felt so juxtaposed with his surroundings, his chest burning with rage, whilst the paintings on the walls attacked him with their flowery idealism. 

“You must realize,” he uttered, softly but with venom, “that is a particularly outdated form of workplace discrimination. Denying potential employees on the basis of their appearance violates basic rights to self-expression – “

“I do not have time for this.” the man stated dismissively, going to turn away, but Enjolas grabbed his arm and swung him back to look him in the eye.

“Ask him anything about any of these fucking paintings and he’ll be able to tell you!” he interjected hurriedly. “I mean, he loves art so much that he’s used himself as a canvas! How can there be any harm in that? How can you say he isn’t right for the job?”

The few museum patrons scattered around the bright hall had all fallen silent, staring over at the two arguing men in alarm. The curator, conscious of this, shook himself loose of Enjolras’ grip and cleared his throat.

“His appearance does not appeal to this museum’s demographic.” the curator returned with forced steadiness, under the surface of which lurked anger and panic. “We have an image to maintain. Our demographic does not appreciate his appearance of delinquency – “

“Can you even hear yourself?” Enjolras burst out, tearing at his hair angrily. “Your demographic is made up of pseudo-intellectual elderly bigots because you turn people away. You turn your nose up at college students and teenagers and anyone who doesn’t have ‘privilege’ tattooed across their forehead – actually, you’d probably kick them out too, taking into account current circumstances –"

“I demand that you leave the premises at once, or I will be forced to have security escort you out.” the curator said flatly.

Enjolras’ lip curled in disdain. 

“Very well, monsieur. Thank you for your time.” he replied, voice burning with sarcasm. “I appreciate your broadmindedness, I find it utterly refreshing.”

“Fucking old bigot.” he added under his breath, as he stormed away.

When he returned to the apartment, he found Grantaire still lying on the couch, now – though only slightly – awake.

“Where were you?” he asked drowsily, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, I had to run an errand for Combeferre. His library card expired, and he needed to borrow a few books.” Enjolras lied smoothly.

“About moths?” Grantaire asked teasingly, stumbling off the couch and stretching so that a gap of skin appeared as his shirt lifted at the waist.

Enjolras scoffed. “This is ‘Ferre we’re talking about – of course it was about fucking moths.”

Grantaire laughed, a tired but vaguely happy sound. A wave of relief flooded Enjolras’ stomach. It seemed, at least, that R was not a total trainwreck at being denied the job, a fact of which he was grateful considering that his confrontation with the curator had, if anything, only made the situation worse. He instantly resolved never to tell Grantaire about it - Enjolras valued his own safety at least to some degree, and after all, Grantaire was a boxer.

~~~{###}~~~

 

A few days later, Enjolras was preparing for a meeting with the Amis when a loud shriek from Grantaire made him literally drop his papers and rush into the living room.

“Are you alright?” he asked, heart racing. 

“I-I mean yeah, I’m fine. I… what?” Grantaire stammered, and Enjolras caught sight of the envelope in one hand, and the letter in the other.

“What is it? Who is it from?” Enjolras asked, approaching him in concern. “Our rent isn’t due for another week, it can’t possibly be – “

“No, no, it isn’t the landlord. It’s… from the museum.” Grantaire said slowly, eyes scanning the print repeatedly, moving down the page and then sliding back up to the top as if trying to fully comprehend the meaning.

Enjolras’ heart skipped a beat – what if the curator had reported him? - but he managed to keep his voice level as he queried:

“A follow-up to the interview, is it?”

“No, it’s an acceptance.” Grantaire replied, shaking slightly. “It says I got the job.”

Enjolras’ jaw dropped, and he sprung forwards like a cat, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders and swinging him around the living room in a sort of bizarre, coupled victory waltz. He could feel Grantaire shivering in excitement and shock, but he managed a shaky laugh before Enjolras stole away his lips for another purpose.


End file.
